


Not One Word

by nowherenew



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Derek if you ever treat my baby this way we will have words, Established Relationship, Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Obsessing, Pining, derek is an awkward child, stiles has issues with loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-18
Updated: 2012-07-18
Packaged: 2017-11-10 06:24:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/463189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowherenew/pseuds/nowherenew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One night, Derek leaves Beacon Hills, not having told Stiles about it beforehand. Stiles deals with this in less-than-optimal ways.</p><p>Tags contain warnings; some spoilers for season one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not One Word

**Author's Note:**

> Canon AU, for convenience's sake; basically, all the Sterek development from the second season stands, because Stiles and Derek are established in this piece, but it's set during the first season before the identity of the second beta is known to the hunters. SPOILERS.

Stiles wakes up to his alarm on Saturday, because he never remembers to turn it off on Friday nights. Almost immediately, he realizes the room is much colder than the night before. He sits up in bed, grabbing his favorite red hoodie, and checks the thermostat in his room. The heat has been on since last night, protecting him from the residual cold of winter's end. He turns around when he feels a light breeze, lips spreading into a wide grin. He looks outside the open window, expecting to see Derek sitting on his roof, since he isn't in Stiles' bedroom. He sees nothing, though, and closes the window. He is no longer smiling. 

Returning to sit on his bed, Stiles folds his arms over his chest. Derek had to have been the one to open his window. Scott only comes when he needs something, and he'd have woken Stiles for that. He doesn't doubt that Derek would watch him sleep, but Derek always stays the night when he does that. He glances over at his desk, wondering if Derek texted him or called him. Under his charging phone, Stiles sees a piece of lined paper, folded sloppily. Brows furrowing even more deeply, he picks up the paper and fiddles with it until it's completely unfolded. 

_Stiles--leaving town. Taking some of the heat off Scott; they'll think I took him with me (still have no idea who he is). Don't follow. Stay safe._

_-D_

That's it. One line of rushed handwriting and a fucking _initial_. Stiles stares at the paper, at the one line of scrawled handwriting and the impersonal initial. He blinks, hoping to wake up for a second time, but knowing that he won't. He turns the paper over, looking for more. Of course, there's nothing, which says everything. Stiles frowns down at the paper, watching it get blurry before exhaling in a huff and wiping his eyes. He shoves the note onto his desk, hiding it under his keyboard. He sits down in the chair, grinding his teeth together. He grabs an Adderall pill from its orange container and swallows it down with a sip of day-old water. He rubs his forehead, unsure of what to think. Nothing makes sense, not right now.

Biting his lower lip and narrowing his eyes accusingly at the corner of loose-leaf peeking out from under his keyboard, Stiles grabs his phone and texts Derek three times in a row, pursing his lips and trying to breathe evenly. Derek doesn't joke around, but this can't be serious. He can't just leave, not after everything. Stiles closes his eyes, his knuckles white with the tight grip he has on his cell phone. He looks at the text conversation, his mouth a solid line. He waits for Derek's timely replies--Derek knows how Stiles is about people returning his calls, texts and emails; he just _keeps doing it_ until the recipient responds. Derek doesn't like that, but that just means he replies as quickly as he can. Surely, Stiles thinks, his phone will vibrate in just a moment. It doesn't. Stiles' glare is only met with his own words.

_where are you? why didn't you say anything?_

_if u randomly gained a sense of humor from someone, they suck at jokes. i'm not laughing_

_come BACK this isn't fair you jackass we're all alone now and the alpha's still out there_

Stiles rests his head in his arms on the desk, phone still plastered to his palm, and sighs into sleep.

When he wakes again, it's brighter outside his window; the day has dragged on without him. Refusing to laugh at the similarities between Derek and the daylight--particularly the terrifying notion that Stiles couldn't hope to rein in either one--Stiles immediately looks at his phone. He isn't surprised that no response has come, but expecting it doesn't make it easier. His fingers fly over the screen, and another message is sent.

_you only wrote one line._

Stiles isn't exactly sure why the lack of a longer note is the most painful thing right now. He's not quite ready to deal with this on a bigger scale, he supposes. He slides his phone away from himself, flinching a bit when it smacks the wall. Putting his head in his arms again, he's close to dozing off when he hears the window open. He stumbles out of his chair, wiping his face on his hoodie's sleeves and preparing an angry speech that he hopes will end with a hug, because rare as they are, Derek knows when he needs them and Stiles needs to be _held_ right now, though he'd never say it in such an awkward way.

When Stiles sees Scott sliding through his open window, his face falls even further. Scott tilts his head at Stiles, nodding towards nothing in particular outside the window. "Derek took off," he says, as though he thinks Stiles wouldn't have found out without him.

"I know," Stiles says, and he wants to scream and thrash and snap at Scott because Scott _knows_ about Stiles and Derek, does he really think Derek wouldn't come to let Stiles know he was leaving? But then Stiles remembers that Derek _hadn't_ told him, not really, so Stiles' voice is soft and shocked and just a little bit shaky. 

"Did he tell you anything?" Stiles looks up at Scott, then, and a feeling of intense guilt washes over him, because just a moment before he was convinced Scott presumed Stiles knew nothing. Scott is just as shocked as Stiles is, albeit in a different way and for different reasons, but Stiles had assumed his oldest and strongest ally--his _best friend_ \--was delicately tiptoeing around a topic for his sake. The thought alone makes him feel disgusted at himself. Stiles coughs, takes a shuddering breath, and shakes his head. He lifts his keyboard and wordlessly gives Scott the lined paper.

"He didn't say anything to you?" At this point, Stiles just wants to know as much as possible. Jealousy isn't such a bad burden to bear, if he can know just a little more. It aches to think that Derek might trust Scott more than he trusts Stiles, but maybe they have some kind of werewolf bond that even Stiles can't beat. Derek's made it quite clear that he doesn't trust Stiles, regardless of desperate kisses and tightly-held hands. 

Stiles feels worse--and better--when Scott replies with a shrug. "He didn't tell me anything," he says, and Stiles should feel even more guilty at the surge of relief that Derek didn't confide in Scott, that Derek had left _Stiles_ with the most information on his plans. "Have you tried to reach him?"

Stiles nods, and remembering the awful implications of Derek not responding to his several texts, needs to sit down. He leans into his desk chair and shakes his head, clearing his throat. "Texted him four times. Nothing."

"D'you think his phone is being tracked or something?" Scott watches far too many crime shows, and if Stiles didn't have a figurative hole in his chest, he would make a witty and sarcastic comment. 

"If it is, and he knows, then he'll either come back or go further away. His phone's not _off_ ; my texts were sent." Frowning and nibbling at his lip, Stiles runs a hand over his hair and presses a fist to his mouth. "What do we do?" He looks at Scott, trying to keep his jaw set and his eyes dry. It probably looks like he has an underbite and a disorder that forces him to blink too much, but he won't cry. Not in front of Scott. He didn't cry earlier, and he won't cry now. It doesn't matter that there's a psychotic werewolf running around _killing people_. It doesn't matter that Scott needs to learn about being a werewolf from someone who can teach him. It doesn't matter that Stiles can still feel Derek's hands on his arms, his warm breath on Stiles' neck, his huge fucking chest pressing against Stiles' back. It doesn't matter. Stiles looks at his shoes, thinking about how irresponsible Derek's acting, and being angry is easier than being heartbroken. 

Scott shrugs. "I don't know, man. This looks pretty final to me. Who knows when he's coming back?" He holds up the paper, gesturing vaguely at it, and Stiles' eyes dart up to glare furiously at Scott. He doesn't feel guilty this time, and snatches the sheet of paper back from Scott, pushing it back underneath his keyboard. 

"He's coming back." 

"But--"

"Look, Scott, you're not exactly an expert in werewolf _anything_. Derek knows what he's doing. You don't. He won't leave us here to deal with the alpha ourselves," Stiles interrupts, his voice losing conviction with every word. "He wouldn't," he adds softly, knowing he's not trying to convince Scott at all. 

Scott is gone just after Stiles realizes what he's said, and just before he opens his mouth to apologize.

Stiles throws his stress ball against the upper windowpane, and it slides shut with a loud bang. He considers bolting the damn thing.

There's a knock at his bedroom door, and Stiles grunts a "go ahead," hoping his father hadn't heard anything. The thing about seasoned law enforcement officials, though, is that whenever you _don't_ want them to notice something, that something is the first thing they see. "Hey," his dad says, and Stiles smiles weakly. His dad is always on his side, even if it doesn't always mean Stiles gets what he wants. "I heard you raising your voice a bit, Stiles. You okay?" 

Stiles nods, and hopes that since his father chose to ask him, despite obviously knowing something is wrong, he'll also choose to let it go when Stiles lies. Stiles hates lying to his father. It is one of the worst feelings in the world. Keeping his dad safe is more important than telling him the truth, though, so Stiles goes to bed every night feeling only a little bit sick with himself. "Yeah, Dad," he says, swallowing thickly. "It's all good. 'M okay."

There's that little frown that Stiles hates so much; the expression that means "I know you're hurting, son, and I want to help, but you won't even let me try" has been more and more prevalent in their home lately. Stiles almost shudders at the way that look has been toxic to their relationship since the very first time it marred his father's face. He presses his hand against his pocket, wriggling his fingers in anxiously, as another layer of guilt settles in his mind. "If you ever need anything, kid, and I don't mean on the grocery list..."

"I know, Dad. Thanks." Stiles wants to ask him about heartbreak, wants to ask him if he'll ever heal, wants to know if he even feels for Derek the same way Dad did for Mom. But he can't burden his father like that. Stiles has to keep his dad safe from everything he can. Diabetes, werewolves, and Stiles' own problems--they won't bother Stiles' dad if he can help it. When his father nods curtly and moves to leave the room, Stiles calls, "I love you," because that's one thing he _does_ know, and he also knows that his dad needs to hear it.

"Love you, too, Stiles," and the door shuts behind him with a soft click. 

Stiles grabs his phone again, laughing shortly and emptily at the lack of a reply from Derek, even now. He curls his hands into fists and shoves his eyes against the heels of his palms, taking shuddering, gasping breaths. He snatches up his phone and heads over to his bed, lying on his side and staring at the open window.

His open window that he closed two hours ago.

He frowns, and looks at his stress ball, lying on the windowsill. It is still as mournful-looking as when Stiles first hurled it at the window. 

"Stiles." Biting his lip because this can't be real and he'll wake up crying any moment, Stiles looks to Derek's favorite corner ("creeper corner," he'd called it just a few weeks ago, when Derek had been hiding from the sheriff in the sheriff's house). Sure enough, Derek's standing there, looking as brooding and gorgeous as ever. His white shirt is streaked with dirt, mud and what looks like blood, but Stiles isn't running to him like he would have six hours ago.

"You were gone," he whispers. "You _left_ without any explanation, and no goodbye." He stares from his perch on soft sheets, pulling his legs up and hugging them to his chest. 

"I know," Derek says, and it sounds like a growl, but also an apology. He steps forward from the corner, frowning when Stiles turns his eyes away. "Stiles, you don't understand. The hunters aren't just people with guns who know about werewolves." Of course, only Derek could ruin the closest he can get to an apology with defensive, righteous bullshit. Stiles scoffs, rolling his eyes.

"I _do_ understand, you idiot." Stiles rests his forehead on his knees, tears gathering and falling each time he blinks. He doesn't bother trying to hide it; he knows full well Derek can smell it. "You almost died once, because of them. I almost couldn't save you. They're not just people with guns. I know." Derek huffs, and Stiles can tell that Derek--idiotic, beautiful, awful as he is--thinks he deserves forgiveness, now that Stiles has admitted that hunters are dangerous. Derek can't possibly think that's the only thing they have to clear up. He looks up at Derek, eyebrows tightly knit together. "You didn't even wake me," he says, barely able to raise his voice above a hoarse whisper.

Derek stills, and Stiles does not give him reprieve of his gaze. He fiddles with the hems of leather sleeves and murmurs, "I wasn't sure if I could leave if I did." 

Stiles stares at him, eyebrows shooting up towards his hairline in a heartbeat. His eyes widen, and his mouth hangs open. "I-is that--did you just--please tell me I'm not misinterpreting that," he breathes, and Derek silently walks towards him in response. This time, Stiles does not look away. He isn't sure that it's the best choice. Derek sits next to him on the bed and awkwardly pulls Stiles into his shoulder. 

"I didn't think I had a choice," Derek mutters, gripping Stiles' arm tightly. Stiles suspects it will ache tomorrow--not bruise; he knows exactly how it feels when Derek will leave bruises later--but he doesn't think much of it. Derek's here. Derek's _home_. 

Stiles reaches for Derek's hand, twining his fingers between Derek's. "You always have a choice," he responds weakly, wishing more than anything to understand.

"Not when it comes to your safety," Derek replies firmly, and Stiles is the one who falls silent and unmoving. Derek ducks his head down, sniffing Stiles' neck. Stiles  
squeezes Derek's hand, and thinks that things will be okay.

"You have no fucking idea how many sexual favors you owe me, do you?" Stiles cracks a grin, tears still bright in his eyes.

Derek frowns, indignant in the way only he can be while remaining completely calm. "You'd think that my trying to save your life would have earned me some points."

"Not if I don't want to be saved," Stiles replies, snorting. "You know, between the alpha and the hunters, I think I'm safest with you in any case." He leaned back against Derek's body, tucking their joined hands into his hoodie's front pocket. "I had an angry speech prepared, you know," he threatens, but it's softened by a delighted grin. "If you ever do anything like this again, I swear, Derek..." While he's thinking of something truly awful to do to Derek, though, Derek turns Stiles' head and kisses him, hot and demanding as always. Stiles presses into Derek's mouth, lips going slack against Derek's. 

Derek growls something that sounds like "never leaving" into Stiles' mouth, and both sets of lips curve into wide grins--one feral and one goofy, but both as happy as can be.

Stiles has a feeling that everything will turn out okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I basically wrote that all in one sitting, not knowing where I was going with it until it was finished. Hope you enjoyed it! I'd love to know what you all think about my first foray into the fic world of Teen Wolf.


End file.
